Two Pair (And a Dud)
by Fellowshipper
Summary: Sequel to The Ring. After being thrown into the dog house by Jean, Scott is taken under the wing of the poker playin' boys of the X-Men.
1. Can't Buy Me Love

**Title:** Two Pair (And a Dud)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, though I'd gladly take the X-people if offered to me. I'll take one of 'im for my upcoming birthday if Marvel really wants rid of them. 

**Notes:** Ah, why is it so much fun to pick on poor Cyke? I like the guy, I really do, it's just...he's too easy to pick on. It was also written while listening to an odd blend of music (Britney Spears, A Perfect Circle, and Garth Brooks come to mind) and right after watching Bringing Out The Dead (if you haven't seen that movie, go rent it. I'm serious.), so that may explain the general goofiness of the whole thing.

**Note #2: **Miss ya always, Big E. Thanks for everything. :)

******

(Chapter title, as if it wasn't obvious enough, was taken from a song of the same name by The Beatles.)

"What...What is this?" 

Scott beamed proudly at his wife. Ever since sneaking her ring out from under her nose and putting it back before she caught onto his scheme, he had been convinced that she would hug and kiss and thank him for going to such lengths to make her happy. Now she finally seemed to have gotten the idea, as she currently stood before him with her ring held out in her palm.

"It's your ring." 

"I _know_ that, Scott. But...What happened to it?" 

Scott's proud smile slipped a little. Shouldn't she be happy? Weren't all women happy when you gave them jewelry? "I had it detailed, honey. I thought it'd be a nice anniversary present." 

Jean's eyes widened, and she checked her temper to keep from hurling the ring at her well-meaning but somewhat dense husband. The circular imprint on his forehead would be logical evidence and enough to get her indited anyway. "And who gave you permission to steal my ring and have it...have it butchered like this?" 

Scott's jaw fell slack. "What? Jean, it looks nice! I thought you'd appreciate it!" 

"It's ruined!" Jean cried, staring in shock at her ring. "I told you that it was fine before and that all I wanted was something simple." 

"But..." Scott's mind raced for a reasonable answer, for he was deathly afraid of Jean losing it and TK'ing him into various walls of the boathouse. "You said the ring didn't matter!" 

"That doesn't matter, Scott. It's my ring and you should have asked before you had it ... 'detailed.'" She forced the words out as if they burned, slamming the ring down on the bedside table. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Scott, you don't even know what you're apologizing for." 

Scott fell silent; she had a point. He thought he was doing something right. Since every private dinner they had fell into shambles thanks to impromptu hostile takeovers by Magneto or Sinister or other inconsiderate supervillain types, he had taken the initiative to add a bit of spice to her wedding ring. Why was she angry with him? Being of the male gender and having absolutely no idea why he was being yelled at, Scott came to the only conclusion that could be reached by one in his position. 

"Is it that time of the month, sweetheart?" 

The next thing he knew, he was being telekinetically flown out the door. He was at least thankful that the table he went through broke the fall that otherwise would have resulted in a nasty spill. A pillow was TK'ed out the door behind him. 

"When you figure out why I'm mad at you, then come back and we'll talk!" 

The door slammed shut, and Scott pondered his options, clutching the pillow to his chest like a small child. He could retreat to the woods and live like Wolverine, he could crawl back on his hands and knees and beg Jean for forgiveness, he could go live in the mansion's garage, or...

Turning around, he decided to swallow his pride and act like a man. That meant going into the mansion and admitting what had happened. 

To avoid that, he decided to go sit in one of the cars for the next several hours. 

It was well after ten p.m. before he deflated his pride enough to stalk into the mansion and settle himself on the couch. He could always just spend the night there and wait for Jean's anger to blow over. 

He was vaguely aware of someone coming down the hallway behind him, and he groaned; he wasn't even going to be given five minutes before someone came in to find him. On the good side, it wasn't one of the more ruthless individuals who would have provided no small amount of ribbing, and for that Scott was extremely thankful. 

"Um...Evenin', sir." 

"Evening, Sam." 

Sam shifted uneasily from foot to foot, going to great lengths to hide the six pack of Budweiser behind his back. He felt a bit foolish doing so, being that it wasn't as if he were still trying to sneak in a bottle under his mother's watchful gaze. He was fully old enough to be legally drinking, but because of the fact Scott had never seen him get a buzz on anything other than too many Mountain Dews that were consumed in a contest between Iceman, Jubilee, and him, Sam was a bit reluctant to reveal to the team's leader that he was indeed a typical early twenty-something young man. 

"So, uh...There a reason why yoah in here an' not the boathouse?" 

Scott nodded tiredly. "Yeah. It's more comfortable than the car." 

Curious blond eyebrows raised. "Really." He paused, passing the beer off to Bobby who came down the hallway behind him. "Not to be rude, sir, but are you an' Mrs. Summers havin' a fight?" 

Scott seemed interested. "How'd you guess? Is it that obvious?" 

Sam shrugged. "Ah know the quarrelin' couple look." He shook his head as he started into the kitchen. "Lord knows Ah see it enough every time I visit Paige. It's always somethin'. That Goth kid, who really sorta scares me, the rich boy, that gray-skinned kid...Ah'm always her soundin' board for all her problems." He stopped at the doorway, completely serious look on his face. "Personally, Ah think she should just join a convent...even though she's not Catholic, but that's a detail." 

"Uh...huh." Scott scratched at his head. That was about the longest Sam had ever talked to him since showing up at the mansion. 

Bobby, having reentered the room from the kitchen, was not even able to express the level of oblivious tact that Sam had managed. "Jean kick ya out?" Too tired and embarrassed to argue, Scott nodded. Bobby snickered. "You're so whipped. You're supposed to stand up to 'er when you get in an argument, not back down like a sissy!" 

Sam, stepping in the way before Scott felt compelled to blast Bobby through the next several walls, tried to usher his friend back into the kitchen. "Ya know, Bobby, maybe that's why he's married an' you can't even keep a girlfriend." 

Inside the kitchen, Logan's lips twitched into a hint of a grin. "Always knew ya had guts, kid." He paused, thoughtfully tapping his cigar against the table. "Then again, don't take much guts to mouth off to Drake." 

"Oh, yeah, let's all pick on the ice cube," Bobby huffed, walking back into the kitchen to resume his argument. Scott leaned back against the end of the couch, staring up at the ceiling fan and trying to focus his attention on one single blade and watch it spin around and around and around. When he made himself sick, he closed his eyes and thought back on his teammate's words. 

"Maybe he's right, Sam. I mean, I can go up against Apocalypse without a second thought. Why can't I stand up to Jean?" 

Sam looked in on the poker game about to be started, wishing for all the world Scott would shut up so that he could go in and join. Besides, with the way Logan drank, Sam's entire six pack would be gone before he even made it into the kitchen. 

"'Cause yoah smarter than Bobby." Another moment of hesitation, then he started again. "If it'd make ya feel better, you can join in on the game we're about t'start." 

"Really?" Scott nearly smacked himself for sounding so enthusiastic. "Um...What game?" 

"Poker. Me, Logan, Remy, and Bobby are playin'. You can, too, if ya want." 

"Jean doesn't like me gambling," Scott pointed out quietly, sitting up and rubbing at the stubble lining his chin. He hadn't been given the chance to shave that morning, and unfortunately it was showing. 

"But Jean ain't here, right?" Sam, by that point painfully aware that Jean would probably twist his mind next time she saw him and found out he all but talked her husband into something that went against her wishes, only wanted to get back in the kitchen before Logan drank everything on the table. If that meant conning Scott into becoming a gambler, then so be it. 

Had it been possible for such a thing to occur, the proverbial lightbulb clicked on over Scott's forehead. He shot up from his spot on the couch, holding his hand up in the classic "I have a dream" pose. "You're right, she's not! For once, I'm going to have fun tonight and not worry about being yelled at. And tomorrow, I'm going to march right into the boathouse and...and mess up the organization of the soup cans in the cabinets! I'm gonna live, Sam!" 

Sam nodded, hastily making his way into the kitchen. "Th-that's nice, sir. But don't push it. Don't wanna do too much, too fast. Can we go now?" 

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure." 

Scott followed Sam into the kitchen with more determination than he had entered the mansion with. Taking a seat beside him and sitting directly across from Gambit, he lowered his eyes as Logan began dealing. "Um...Remy, I...I'm sorry about the whole ring thing." 

Remy shrugged with an air of good nature, barely glancing at his cards before tossing another two into the pile, even while Scott sat and studied his intently. "Don't worry about it, Scottie. I mean, mistakes happen, right?" 

"Mmm hmm. Hey, what's wild?" 

Logan raised his eyebrows. "Deuces." 

"That's it?" 

"Yeah. That's it." 

Bobby snickered. "What's wrong, Cyke? Got a bad hand?" 

"I think so." 

"That wasn't nice, weaslin' an answer out of 'im," Sam chastised lightly, tossing another quarter into the modest pile in the middle of the table. Having been given a clue as to what the fearless leader's hand was, Logan tossed in two quarters, followed closely by Gambit. Scott stared fervently at his hand before Logan speared one of the quarters he had set aside with his claw and deposited it in the pile. 

"Hey! My cash!" Scott protested quietly. Sam sat scratching at his head, wondering if time was somehow repeating itself. He was tempted to look around for the black cat to go rushing through the doorway, then shrugged it away and threw in his ante. The other three card players did the same until it came back to Scott, and he looked to Sam for guidance.

"What now?" 

"If ya still wanna raise it, go ahead an' throw somethin' else in. Otherwise, you can stop now." 

Scott nodded in understanding. So it wasn't that difficult. "Okay. I hold." 

"No, Scott, it's... you know what, it isn't important," Bobby stopped himself in mid-sentence, watching in disbelief as Scott laid down a royal flush. "And I thought Sam was the only one who hussled people." 

The other participants, Gambit included, tossed down their cards in a mixture of disgust and amazement. Scott sat and stared at the various expressions regarding him. "So...I won?" 

"Yup. Good job," Sam congratulated, watching as Scott reached for his winnings and began to neatly organize the quarters in stacks to his right. Popping open a can of beer, he took a sip and glanced sideways at the older man. "So how 'bout we up the ante a lil'?" 

"Cyke's got enough t'go t'Vegas. I t'ink it'd be a good idea." Scott could tell by the simple glint in the Cajun's eyes that Remy was out for pure and simple revenge after being twice accused of a crime that, for once, he had been completely innocent of doing. 

"Sure, why not?" He turned to smile proudly at Sam, but that smile was immediately turned into a frown. "Sam. You drink?" 

"Uh...Yeah." Sam absently sat the can down on the table and pushed it away. "Sometimes. Once in a while." 

"He's a drunk, Scott. Needs checked into Betty Ford, if you ask me." Bobby ducked the slap Sam aimed at his head. 

Remy snickered and pushed one of the unopened cans to Scott. "Go on, Scottie. Might do ya some good t'relax an' all." 

Logan shook his head. "Yer borderin' on peer pressure there, Gumbo." 

Remy's snicker became more evident. "I know." 

Two hours later and fifty bucks richer, Scott was beginning to let the three sips of alcohol he consumed get the best of him. Though everyone else had left, he and Remy still sat at the table, playing cards simply for the fun of it. 

"Sounds like a sticky situation ya got y'self into, mon ami," Gambit mused, showing his full house against Scott's two pair. "So she didn't like de detailing, hmm?" 

"No. And I have no idea how to make it up to her." 

Remy, eyes glittering mischievously, began shuffling the cards again. "You don't have t'take my word on it, but ol' Remy, he know a few t'ings about women." Scott began to nibble on his lower lip for fear of blurting a fact he had once heard that a sure sign of insanity was when one began to refer to oneself in third person. "One t'ing I know, if y'made her mad somehow an' ya know what ya did, fix it as soon as possible." 

"If I knew what I did wrong, I'd fix it! But I thought she'd appreciate the detailing!" 

Remy shrugged. "So get it undetailed." 

Scott's eyes widened in surprise. "You can do that?" 

"Sure. Just take it back to de jeweler an' tell 'im dat whatever he did, you want it reversed." 

"Simple as that, huh?" 

"Simple as dat, Scottie. Hey, would dis ol' Cajun lie to you?" Remy grinned impishly, showing the straight he held against Scott's measly high card. "Do me a favor, Cyke, an' don't answer dat." 


	2. Ring On Her Finger

Scott would like to blame his actions on the alcohol, but considering even Sam had laughed when he suggested he was getting a slight buzz, he doubted he was exactly drunk. Scott would like to blame his actions on his brain being fried from all the cigarette smoke that had billowed around the mansion's kitchen, but realized Hank would quickly disprove that certain line of defense. 

Scott, for lack of a better explanation, could only assume he was a hopeless idiot. 

It was bad enough he was having to sneak into his own home. Now he was sneaking into his own home to steal his wife's wedding ring. Again. He only wanted to make things right with her, and sleeping in the car wasn't comfortable at all. So there he stood in his house, the rising sun casting shadows across the room, debating whether or not to risk life and limb by stealing the ring. If he did, he would probably be murdered as soon as Jean found him. Or, he could bring it back and make her happy by having it restored to its original condition. On the other hand, he could go back to the mansion and be the brunt of every one of Bobby's jokes for the rest of his natural life. 

So. Theft it was. 

Vowing to make it up to his wife, he took the ring and tucked it safely away in his back pocket. A quick kiss to Jean's forehead and he was out the door to drive to the jeweler and wait for the next two hours for the shop to open. 

******

Betsy, already having calmed down and made breakfast, was glad to see that everyone appeared to be enjoying his or her meal. Well, all but Sam. He had traipsed into the kitchen behind everyone else with an upset stomach and seated himself beside Bobby. The sight and smell of his friend's eggs done sunny side up was enough to send him groaning and whimpering back to his room. 

Jean walked into the kitchen and took her usual spot beside Rogue. "Morning." 

"Observant," Beast quipped with a small grin. Jean yawned. 

"Hush. I'm tired." She paused, looking around curiously. "Has anyone seen Scott?" 

There was a low chorus of no's, but Logan provided a bit of help. "I saw him leavin' when I got up earlier." 

Remy speared one of the sausage links on Rogue's plate and popped it into his mouth, much to the woman's dislike. "He said somet'ing last night about takin' y'ring to the jewelry store." 

Jean gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned a sickly shade of white. "He didn't." 

Remy shrugged, trying hard to hide his smile. "Sorry, Jeannie." 

Jean's right eye began to twitch. "I don't believe it. I was going to apologize for yelling at him yesterday! And I was going to tell him that after I calmed down, I actually sat down and looked at the ring, and I liked it!" 

Bobby chuckled quietly. "These are the days of our lives." 

******

Scott walked with proud determination into the boathouse. He wouldn't jump around the issue; rather, he would find Jean and put the ring on her finger himself. He would swing open the door with his newly acquired courage and...

Almost smack into his wife.

"Jean?" He was surprised, especially at the angry look in Jean's normally placid green eyes. "Er...I had your ring ... um...undetailed." He held it out for inspection, and Jean never flinched. 

"You should have asked." 

Scott clenched his jaw to keep from making the intelligible, mindless noises his mind was telling him to make. "But...You said..." 

"I believe you heard me tell Gambit yesterday that I don't appreciate you sneaking around and stealing my belongings." 

"But...I even spent the money I won last night to get it fixed!"

"You won...Scott, have you been gambling?" 

Scott gulped. "Um...Yes." 

Jean, too tired to continue arguing that point, sputtered wordlessly for a moment before blurting the first thing that came to mind. "And I liked that ring!" 

"But...Jean..."

"Look, I don't really want to talk right now, Scott." 

Scott gave a small whimper of protest, then dropped the ring on the table by the door and walked back out, blindly making his way into the mansion and into the male dormitory. He didn't stop until he reached the end of the hallway and knocked on a partially opened door. 

"Go 'way." 

The voice was muffled but undeniably what could only be classified as Kentuckian. Scott pushed the door the rest of the way open despite the young man's order. 

"Sam?" 

Sam rolled over on the bed, staring blearily at the team leader. "Wha...Huh?" 

Scott's voice held the distinctive note only a beaten man could manage. "Do you have any beer left?" 

Sam moaned loudly, falling back against the pillows and causing a few feathers to fly about his head. 

"What? What'd I say? Sam?" 


End file.
